Dim Mak

An excerpt from a novella entitled "Centzototochtin"

Which I may some day release...

“I could kill you by sticking any one of 212 pressure points”

she whispered through a speedy drag and esurient nibble of livid durian her
silent militarily inept sidekick bootlegged through Thai customs.

That scant lil patch of thin red pubic hair she’d carved into a slightly askew copyright sign last week peeked out from her ripped boy shorts

as she pulled her scraped knees to her mosquito bites.

“I could also make you come, make your lungs deflate, inflate.
I could make your heart stop with the agony of hemorrhage
or the tight wet kiss of ecstasy, all with those dull meridians.”

In that I grew a few inches for her.


She admired her dimples and quicksilver eyes in my aviators.

She fed her razor edged bangs stale pumpernickel crotons and danced clumsily through life zinging gansta rap through the gap in her teeth.

That is until she made herself at home in the temporal wormholes of their occipital lobe;

Where gas-bar girls in smirched pajama pants and flip flops and not much else strayed through Newyorkian Februaries avenues of barbwire.

In the back of the rusted out hatchback,
I argued their diaphanous skin was "hypothermic blue,"
while she insisted “azure” more accurately described the shade...

1,000,000 died to write this

GOD BLESS OUR DEAD BANKERS

-For Efrim Menuck, Sophie Trudeau, Jessica Moss, Thierry Amar, & David Payant

otherwise known as 'Thee Silver Mt. Zion Memorial Orchestra'-

“The earth is 4.5 billion years old, kid don’t you know you and I
are just grains of partially digested fried rice in the stomach
of a mob lackey in the back seat of an American auto barreling down a hill in flames?”
- Squeaky B (The Bride of Pleiades)

Gamelan
When I could still determine my age with one impeccant hand
Goethe’s moribund foster-monster
prison-tattooed my paltry sex-machine
with the word “flagellant” in Sans Serif.
I would not understand why for many years…

Damnum Fatale
She used tritium embezzled from a planet identical to earth but ravaged by the magnesium bleed of wildfires;
A world where the meaning of life was not frenzied birdcalls in
dawns clench of the jaw.

Everything in my world was golden brown, and either stippled your
sore gums treading trazadone waters of sleep with the stories of our lives or lost-and-found stiff flat feet in the sand’s frightening vamp-off-ya-mojo.

Sedan + Headless Torso Relinquished in Redwood Forests
I came to your manufactories, petitioned rail-yards, parentless grain silos and the villa van asbestos lost in the grub writhe of oblivious daylight to live deliberately and see if I could not learn what it had to teach and not when I came to truly live discover that I had died in the Devonian.

Heresiologies
My father
& his father before him
& his father before him
& his father before him
had all been
married to bonny man-eaters with low self-esteem who on the side buggered slack-jaws in carpenter-jeans.

Do not disappoint me.
Practice flagellation with dirty orange extension cords in mountains as they turn to steam in your ears.

Dauerschlaf
See, the voyeur frig the viewer and the viewer flog the martinet and they’ll both end up dejected with autistic kids--say it’s just you, me, thirteen stray vermin and the liquor cabinet---so lets drink to the clamor, and drink to the amour, and drink to the glamour, and drink to the rancor, lets drink to forget, and drink to remember and lets share a kiss for our kids who are killing;
God bless this millennium!

Aceldama
I understood then,
That I had prevented “The last headache you’ll ever have.”

I’d changed my identity more times than I can count with two hands.
I have killed the lord,
now everything is sacred.

Note: This poem will appear in the forthcoming publication "The Caunotacarius."

Also, props to Henry David Thoreau
for providing me with something fine I could fractionally plagiarize

The Unstoppable Blood Jet Pt. I

Note: As always the material you are about to

read is sort of a work of fiction based on true events.

Those events correspond to a reading held

at the Florida Public Library on April 16, 2010.

THE UNSTOPPABLE BLOOD JET

PART I

Virtuosity coruscated from the perfidious barrels of our eyes, Big Pink and I set out into the aphotic brackish of blackberry winter to skull fuck the dandy's with our oratory and so we did.

I dismounted in the sleepy hamlet of Florida, New Amsterdam with the rooty quiddity of Calliope in the threads of my unwashed hair.

We drifted into a grotto of picture-books and chocolate-covered strawberries with our weapons loaded and serenely plugged our Ajna's into the mercurial grid.

Rebecca Schumejda summarized an oxygenated ocean of imagery and vision with a human face and a kind mein prickled with innocent jests of levity.

Janet Hamill commanded the audience with an affable yet momentous tone while administering a lethal dose of brilliantly crafted surrealism;
I would like to state for the record that I died mirthfully fulfilled.

Robert Milby who has been called everything from "The Whirling Dervish of Poetry" to the "Sir Milby of Florida" or just simply the "Tzar" brought the reading to a powerful sociopolitical end employing work dealing with the oil crisis, dead patriots, and the unthinking Amerikan majorities disregard for virtue, purpose, and love in the modern information epoch.

There was no time for elbow bumps or posturing after the curtains dropped and the candle flames died just a hustle through mist with Ziplocs of cookies too tires squealing fog fits.

One hundred & twelve minutes to get to the capital district before the genome samples we'd recovered from the hull of the aero-copter would deteriorate into viral progenitors and the human project would once and for all dissolve...

Would we get there in time?

Alive?

In one piece?

TO BE CONTINUED...